


He Hit Me and it Felt Like a Kiss

by Loz



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot, Rough Sex, Underage Sex, Violence, non-systematic but repeated physical abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-13
Updated: 2012-07-13
Packaged: 2017-11-09 21:04:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/458396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loz/pseuds/Loz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He likes it when Derek touches him. <i>Likes it</i> likes it, in a tingle-in-his-tummy, thrill-up-his-spine kind of way. Which probably wouldn't be any kind of problem if Derek's version of touching wasn't slamming, pinning, gripping, and punching. Well, it would be less of a problem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Hit Me and it Felt Like a Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the song by The Crystals, with all the unhealthy attitude attached.

It takes him a while to notice. He can't help that, really. There are extenuating circumstances of the monster variety. Sometimes the monster is Derek. So it isn't immediate, this acknowledgement skittering under his skin. He doesn't figure it out in one swift epiphany. It's a gradual thing, the realization.

He likes it when Derek touches him. _Likes it_ likes it, in a tingle-in-his-tummy, thrill-up-his-spine kind of way. Which probably wouldn't be any kind of problem if Derek's version of touching wasn't slamming, pinning, gripping, and punching. Well, it would be less of a problem. 

Stiles doesn't _think_ he's a masochist. He tests it a couple of times, just be to sure. Slams his hand in his locker door. Asks Allison to pinch his arm. Nope and no, he doesn't react to either of those things except with pain and worry that Allison was so, so quick to oblige his request. It's not the smarting sting of Derek's brand of rough that excites him. He isn't equating pain with pleasure. It isn't the pain alone.

It's everything. 

When Derek has him pinned against the wall it's the best kind of uncomfortable. He's under close scrutiny, he's feeling the hot press of Derek against his skin, he's vitally aware he's alive. Derek is focused on nothing but him, eyes intent, large hands holding him still. It's like they're the only two people in the world. And Stiles has come to notice that he doesn't appear to be the only one getting a sick kind of satisfaction out of these moments. Because Derek, for all that he's crowding into Stiles and demanding answers, or quiet, or attention --- he isn't letting go when he gets any and all of them. If anything, he pushes tighter, lips quirking up at the sounds Stiles can't help making; low and stuttering. 

This is not healthy. This is beyond ridiculous. Yet Stiles finds himself looking forward to it. Actively provokes it. Wonders how many ways he can break Derek's resolve until it isn't just another shove, his words are being swallowed by more than merely a persuasive glare. Stiles isn't positive, but he thinks he might have cracked it, here, now, as Derek kicks his legs apart and looms over him, one hand successfully trapping both of his above his head. 

"I'd have thought you'd have learned how to defend yourself by now," Derek says, and there is something unreal about the way he stares at Stiles, like he doesn't believe himself either. Like he's testing Stiles, just wanting to eke out a response, prolong their exposure to one another.

"Oh yeah," Stiles scoffs, "the weedy teenaged human has the facility to stop the persistent ultra-strong werewolf."

"You're not that weedy," Derek comments, and that is a _leer_.

"Please, do not be fooled by my ability to wear a shirt. It's all in the padding."

It isn't overly dignified, but Stiles feels overwhelmingly victorious at the look on Derek's unusually expressive face. Derek's normally grim-set lips are parted, his eyes large and luminous in the dim light of the abandoned station. Stiles rocks his body forward and raises an eyebrow. 

"See?"

"You don't know what you're playing with, Stiles."

Stiles licks his lower lip, smiles at the concentration it evokes in Derek's gaze. "You think of yourself as an object? A thing?"

Derek's eyes flick back up to stare into his, harder glint interspersed with obvious interest. "I was referring to the situation."

Stiles shrugs in-so-far as he's able. His arms are beginning to ache and he wants to know what Derek's planning to do with his free hand. It's hanging loosely at Derek's side, but all Stiles can think is how much he wants it trailing over his torso, riding up under his shirt. He needs to feel the slide of Derek's fingertips on his over-heated skin. He cants his hips, rolls them toward Derek and up. He thinks maybe if they have a little more contact...

There's a harsh, rapid snap of sound, and then Stiles' cheek and jaw begin to sting. He realizes his head has zipped suddenly to the side. 

"You slapped me?" Stiles whines, not above asking the obvious.

And just when he thinks Derek is going to release him with some angry comment about not being a smart-alec to his betters, or demand he go, straight-away, or just insult him the way only Derek knows how --- he crushes his mouth against Stiles' and takes full possession of all of his faculties. 

There's a beat, two, and then Stiles is hungrily kissing him back, whole body thrumming with the urge to show Derek he can give as good as he gets. His heart is rattling within his rib-cage, his chin is sore from the rasp of Derek's beard, his arms continue to feel overly stretched; it's a combination of uniquely discomforting experiences. And Stiles loves it. Loves how Derek surges between the V of his legs, loves how his entire life has narrowed to this pinprick of time, loves how he's so consumed by this he's not thinking a million things at once.

Derek releases his hands and clutches at his hips, driving him deeper into the wall, pressing all down his front. Stiles knows this is his moment to push Derek away, that if he was sensible that's exactly what he'd do. He tangles one hand up into Derek's hair and scratches down his back with the other. He kisses Derek deeper, instinctively licking filthily into his mouth. This elicits a muffled sound of surprise from Derek, all honeyed and warm. 

Stiles doesn't know how much time passes, but Derek pulls away eventually, strong, wide chest moving rhythmically as he breathes. Stiles stares, transfixed. 

"You should stay away," Derek says, sounding shocked. His thumb remains pressed against Stiles' hip. There's an edge of desperation to his words. He can't keep his eyes off Stiles' tingling lips.

"Do you think I ever do as I'm supposed to?" Stiles asks, for the hell of speaking. 

"If you think the only thing I'll do if you stay is kiss you, you're naive or stupid. Probably both."

Stiles wants to tell him that he's neither of those things, just reckless and curious. Instead he finds himself lunging at Derek, clutching at one of his shoulders, fisting at the stretched fabric, as he grips his jaw with the other and tilts his head into the perfect position. This kiss is so much sweeter than the others. Derek lets Stiles use him, moaning throatily when Stiles nips at him. Stiles is over-eager. He hasn't kissed anyone the way he's kissing Derek. He isn't hesitant, he isn't shy. He figures he'd have been stopped if this was wrong. It is wrong, undoubtedly, but not because of his skill or lack-thereof, not judging by the way Derek's finally peeling away the hem of his t-shirt and dragging his fingertips up, then down, to tease at the back of his waistband. 

His whole body is in over-drive, blood rushing in his ears, knees having to lock into place or he'll fall, sprawling onto the floor. Everything within him wants to beg for more, please, quicker, and he grunts shamelessly when Derek uses one of his claws to slice open his shirt, edging his teeth along his collarbones --- teeth, not fangs, not yet, Stiles thinks in a fog of confusion. Frankly, he's jealous of his control. He's currently preoccupied with how obscene it is that Derek is all muscle against him, unable to devote all his attention to that because he's just thumped his head into the wall and seems to be sliding down a little, too caught up to stop his feet from shifting. 

Derek wrenches at his jeans, licking hot and wet up Stiles' neck and then breathing into his ear. "Stay still," he commands.

"Can't," Stiles responds. "I'm turning into, like, jelly. Raspberry flavored. Or, no, blueberry. Way too sweet and a little tart, and---"

Derek cuts off his babbling, nosing beneath his ear, then kissing over his cheek as one hand flicks open the top button of his fly. Derek tugs at his zipper and Stiles arches up into it --- the hand that's so close to making him keen brazenly. Brightness edges at the sides of his vision. He gazes at Derek, at the look of intense absorption on his face. Derek's brow is furrowed, but for once he's not scowling. His lips are curved, and he's --- smug. He is totally smug. He's beyond pleased that he's got Stiles in such a writhing, sweaty mess for him, straining against him, half a second away from going to his knees in supplication. And maybe it's completely fucked up, but Stiles is proud he's the one to be making Derek feel this way. 

"Do you want me to touch you?" Derek asks insistently. 

"Is this nonsensical porn talk or have you been blacked out the last fifteen minutes?" Stiles asks back. 

Derek's self-satisfaction doesn't dissipate, but he does growl as Stiles swipes his tongue over his lower lip. And waits, unmoving. And continues to wait even when Stiles wriggles forward again. 

"You're gonna make me say it, aren't you? Janet from Rocky Horror style."

Derek's grin is feral. Stiles bashes his head back again, winces, wonders why he's even bothering with the pretense. 

"Please, Derek, I want this."

He stops shy of saying, 'give it to me'. He has some self-respect. 

Not much, with the way he's watching Derek undo his own jeans, slide them down his thighs. He's seen other guys before, of course. He may be a virgin, but he's not exactly the blushing, ignorant kind. Ever since he began to notice his reaction to Derek, he's been researching. But to see Derek's thick, long cock curve up and out from his body like that? His tongue feels too large and dry for his mouth, his palms are itching and sweaty.

Derek doesn't need another word, not even another nonverbal whimper. He claims Stiles' mouth again, just this side of vicious, and grasps hold of Stiles' painfully hard cock. Stiles goes to return the favor, groaning again as Derek surges up within his grip, hot and full of friction. It is nothing like touching himself, all frantic and half-ashamed. The pride he feels at being able to reduce Derek to harsh, shuddering grunts sees to that. They move like that for a while, rutting into one another, but it's awkward. Derek gives a cut-off snarl. 

He stops, eases away a short distance, brings his hand up to face-level. "Lick me."

Stiles isn't inclined to protest. He maintains eye-contact with Derek as he leans forward and flicks his tongue out wetly. He coats Derek’s hand the best he can. Bites at the flesh between Derek's thumb and index finger. Derek's eyes swim red for a second, then return to normal. Stiles stops licking, swallows thickly. He can't help but go onto tip-toes when Derek grips at the base of his cock again, presses his length all against him, until they're aligned. 

Derek slides up and down, spit-slick and _perfect_. Stiles feels fever-heated, his heartbeat rocketing. He knows he’s being pushy when he wraps his own hand around Derek’s and insists he speed up, but he doesn’t care, not even a little, he’ll be that guy if it gets results. And it gets results.

"Always pushing me, aren't you, Stiles?" Derek asks, lips parted and eyes heavy-lidded. Stiles knows things are wrong when he thinks this is the least crazy he's looked in a long time. 

"You know you like it, otherwise we wouldn't be here right now."

Stiles doesn’t know if Derek kisses him again to shut him up or confirm the truth. The answer’s inconsequential, because he’s teetering on the edge of this going from perfection to too much. The rhythm they’ve gotten into is making every nerve within him throb. He can’t concentrate on anything much but the wet slide of them against his abdomen, the way Derek adds a twist to the end of every stroke. Stiles is hyper-aware of every brush of their knuckles, each panting breath that skitters against his cheek.

He comes suddenly, shockingly, and maybe it shouldn’t be such a surprise, but it is, because he’s used to warning signs when he does this alone. He pulses over them, wet and messy, and bites back a high-pitched whine as he does so. Derek speeds up his hand, roughly pulling on his own cock, uncaring that Stiles is now oversensitive. When Derek comes, he captures Stiles’ lips again in a wild kiss, licking in deep like he never wants to do anything else. Breaking away actually seems to pain him, he has a frown on his face like usual. Stiles didn’t realize how much he wanted to see a different expression until it was there, in front of him.

"What is it about me?" Stiles asks, because even when ninety-nine percent of his mind is occupied in blissing out, there's always a background process thinking too hard. He wipes his hands on the tatters of his shirt, not nearly as disgusted as he expects to be.

"If I knew that, I'd know how to avoid it," Derek returns. He sounds just as shaky as Stiles is. "Touching you just feels so good."

"You could touch me in other ways than slapping me," Stiles offers.

"Already did."

"I mean in a non-sexing-up capacity."

Derek's expression goes dangerously focused. "What, like hold your hand as we go skipping down the street?"

Stiles punches Derek before he can register it himself. Swings his fist and slams it into Derek's jaw. His head snaps back an inch and Stiles takes the opportunity to bend down, grab at his jeans, run out of there, not bothering about the fact he’s essentially topless. But he doesn't count on Derek wrapping his hand around his wrist like a vice. 

Derek smacks him back into the wall and savages his mouth again; demanding, cruel. But as he does so he lets go of Stiles' wrist and slips their hands together, interlaces their fingers and is almost _gentle_. In that moment, it doesn't matter that he's sticky and damp. Stiles melts into the kiss, entire body craving more contact. And if he mentally catalogs the way Derek's fingers feel interwoven with his, no one has to know.


End file.
